The Sadist
by Elektra3
Summary: A prequel of sorts to the BJT and IR that focuses on Daemon. Chronicling his years in Dorothea's court, it shows his eventual transformation into the man known as the Sadist. - Chapter 3 up! -
1. Prologue

This particular fic is a little something that wormed my way into my head and clamped its teeth around my skull when I first started reading Anne Bishop's superb Black Jewels Trilogy, but I didn't seriously consider writing it until I found fanfiction.net. The rest, as they say, is history. I've always been particularly fascinated with the character of Daemon Sadi. On the one hand, he's a nice guy; on the other hand, he's a cold-blooded killer. This fic will chronicle his "court years," from the time Saetan makes the agreement with Dorothea until Witch comes. (I'll skip over large chunks of time, of course – a detailed account of every moment of a 1700 year period would probably be mind-numbingly dull. Daemon is interesting, but he's not that interesting.) Oh, and one other thing. The "R" rating is for subject matter – you know what I'm talking about if you've read the Black Jewels Trilogy – and a few references to slash, but I'll leave a lot to the imagination. This won't exactly be bedtime reading, but it won't be smut either.  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing, I tell you! Nothing!  
  
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1 Prologue  
  
Steepling his fingers, he looked across the table at Dorothea SaDiablo, not bothering to hide his distaste. "Are we agreed, then?" he asked in his deep voice.  
  
She smiled coquettishly, her every move an open invitation. He wondered why she repulsed him so much. Oh, her face and figure were beautiful, but there was something about her psychic scent that was slightly… off. Like the faint remembered whiff of the midden on a hot summer's day. Like Hekatah's scent…  
  
"Yes," she said. "If the child is a girl, she belongs to the Hourglass – " To me, her smile said – "but if it's a boy, he goes with you." She paused. "After the Birthright Ceremony, of course."  
  
"Of course." She did not seem to have detected the faint wry note in his voice.  
  
He still wasn't sure why he had agreed to Dorothea's proposal. Breed with one of her Black Widows, bring his Black-Jeweled strength into the failing bloodlines of Hayll's Hundred Families. And on the surface it seemed like a perfectly acceptable suggestion; the darker-Jeweled Blood were not so common that one could simply ignore the fact that the bloodlines of Hayll's most prominent had been producing fewer and fewer Dark Jewels recently.  
  
Ever since Dorothea SaDiablo had come to power in Hayll.  
  
Among the Blood, it had always been the Queens who ruled. Males and other witches might be held in close confidence, might have considerable influence with her, but it was always the Queen who ruled. Not that a Queen ruled every inch of land in the three Realms; he himself was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and the High Lord of Hell. But even he, the only Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince in the history of the Blood, had once served a Queen, and even now, after fifty thousand years, still served her in his own way.  
  
But Dorothea, a Priestess, held practically unquestioned authority in Hayll.  
  
And there were rumors in the streets of Draega, a sort of uneasy murmur. Rumors about dark-Jeweled young witches having their Virgin Nights much too young, about the strong young Queens being broken before they could come into their full strength, about a subtle twisting of the ways of the Blood, a sense of wrongness in the air.  
  
"High Lord?"  
  
He favored her with a bland, impersonal smile. "Forgive me, Priestess; my mind wandered."  
  
Her answering smile was a peculiar mix of warm understanding and predatory hunger. "Of course, High Lord. It's been quite a tiring day for all of us." Her smile broadened, showing off all of her perfectly white teeth. "I'll send my Steward to SaDiablo Hall tomorrow with the finished contract."  
  
"Good." He called in his cape and settled it around his shoulders. "I'll inform you of my choice before the end of the week." He looked back at her briefly, trying not to shudder at what briefly flashed in her eyes before she noticed him watching, and walked out the door. Hoping that he wasn't making the worst mistake of his life.  
  
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Dorothea SaDiablo waited until after the scent of the Black had left her mansion before collapsing into a nearby chair. So much power… so much power.  
  
Power that would soon be hers through the High Lord's brat.  
  
If the child was a girl, all well and good; a strong, controllable witch would be perfect for her plans. But if it was a boy…  
  
A vicious smile passed over her lips. Saetan, for all his strength, was a fool. Hekatah had been right; he was still too caught up in the old ways of the Blood to consider breaking his word once it had been given. And he absolutely would not break Blood law if it killed him.  
  
So if by some unfortunate chance the child was a boy, getting control of the child would be as simple as denying the High Lord paternal rights; once paternity was denied, he would have no further rights to his son. And he would abide by it. He might torture himself with it afterwards, but he would abide by his precious Blood law at all cost.  
  
The smile broadened into a smirk.  
  
At least a code of honor was good for something. 


	2. Chapter 1

I'm baaack! Normally I don't post two chapters two days in a row, but hey, I was inspired. I think that you'll probably be able to figure out who the Black Widow is… but if you can't, you'll know by the next chapter. Promise!  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the Black Jewels Trilogy. I never have owned the Black Jewels Trilogy. I never will own the Black Jewels Trilogy. If you ever try to suggest that I own the Black Jewels Trilogy, I will pick up my laptop and beat you with it.  
  
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1 Chapter 1  
  
In one of Draega's many back alleys, the Black Widow stared with mounting horror at the tangled web that she had just woven.  
  
She wasn't an official member of Hayll's Hourglass coven. Quietly but firmly removed from the Hourglass – Dorothea's pets, she thought with some disgust – when she had refused to accept a Priestess as ruler of Hayll, she had slipped away from the court, from tainted Hayll, before Dorothea could have her broken or killed or worse.  
  
And she wondered for the thousandth time why she had come back.  
  
No, that wasn't true. It was normal for a Black Widow to have dreams and visions besides what she saw in her tangled webs, but these dreams… Mother Night, they terrified her. Dreams of the High Lord of Hell looking into a mirror, the High Lord weeping while a smiling Dorothea ripped out his heart, the High Lord kneeling in the middle of a study, the torn pages of books clenched in his fists. She had never seen the man face-to-face, but she knew him as surely as if they had been formally introduced. And the visions of herself. Visions of being broken, Jewels shattering like glass; of Dorothea ripping a child – her child – from her arms; of standing behind a beautiful man with the golden-brown skin of her native Dhemlan – a beautiful man, but cold as ice.  
  
More.  
  
Visions of that same man looking up at the High Lord through a pool of water. Visions of him crouched before Dorothea's court, body bowed with pain, Black Jewel blazing with fire. Visions of him standing in a bedchamber, murder in his eyes. And everywhere, the image of ice – covering the bedchamber walls, glazing the windows and mirrors, enshrouding his soul.  
  
She had seen in that soul a delicate balance – on the one hand a pure, destructive force, on the other hand, a desire – no, a need – to destroy Dorothea and all that she had done to Hayll, and would eventually do to the Realms. Such a delicate balance, and even the slightest wrong word could permanently push him into becoming a brand of destruction that even Dorothea could only aspire to. But push him in the right direction, let his treatment at Dorothea's hands make him into the perfect weapon; a beautiful, deadly serpent clasped to her breast. It was a slim hope, and a cruel one – she shuddered at the thought of what Dorothea would do to him – but cruel or not, no price was too high to pay for the salvation of some part of what was pure and good among the Blood.  
  
And it was too much to hope that her visions would not come to pass. She had been a Black Widow for too long to disregard her visions.  
  
Now, with rumors of the High Lord's contract with Dorothea buzzing in the air, she knew what was going to happen. Dorothea might hope to secure a powerful, controllable pet… but she would get something very, very different. The only question that remained was what that difference would be.  
  
No, it was no surprise that she had come back to Hayll.  
  
A sudden noise ripped her from her thoughts. Footsteps running, and… the feel of Jeweled power. Shouts. Curses. It could only mean one thing. Taking one last, desperate look at the tangled web, and desperately clutching her Tiger-eye Jewel, she rose to face the intruders.  
  
It wasn't pretty. It never was. After she had drained her Jewels, futilely attacking shields that were far more powerful than she was, the leader, who had hung back, flicked his Green-ringed hand with almost careless amusement, sending her reeling backward to smash against the alley wall. Walking up to her, he smiled. "So," he said. His voice was detached, but his eyes glittered with cruel amusement. "Here's the pretty little bitch who thought she could get away from the Priestess." He looked over his shoulder at his men. "What do you say, boys? Shall we teach her a little lesson?" Vicious grins were his only response.  
  
Hands reached toward her, ripping off her clothes, tearing at her hair, pawing her body.  
  
She fought and kicked and screamed, of course.  
  
It didn't help.  
  
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After an eternity of bruised and violated flesh, the last man got up, pulled on his pants, and signaled to his comrades, who were holding her down. When they let go, she pulled her legs together, crossing them at the ankles, but was otherwise too tired to get up. What did it matter? What did anything matter? Her Jewels were gone, broken. What once could have been a magnificent stained glass window was now only the shattered remnants of melted sand.  
  
The leader walked over to her and made a mock-courteous bow. "Thank you, Lady, for a delightful time." Kneeling, he bent his head close to her ear and whispered, "This was a taste. Just a taste. Keep up your defiance of the Priestess, and you won't live to make the Offering." He stood. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot. You'll never be able to make the Offering now, will you, little witch? Such a dreadful shame."  
  
Laughing, he and his men walked out of the alley.  
  
The Black Widow lay still for a moment, savoring the slow uncurling of still, icy rage, and stood, walking over to where her tangled web lay forgotten. Her lips stretched into a terrible, mirthless grin as she looked at what she had woven.  
  
Dorothea would try to possess the man that the Black Widow had seen in her visions, would hurt him, enslave him, torture him. But in the end… ah, in the end, he would destroy her. The killing blow would not come from his hand, but he would open up the path through which Dorothea and all that she had wrought would be destroyed.  
  
The leader of the men had been right, in a way. She would never make the Offering when she had been stripped of her Birthright Jewels. But what he didn't know was that he had given her a reason to live.  
  
Dorothea had lived her entire life among the sterile environs of Hayll's Hundred Families. She had never truly known the rage of a Blood- Jeweled witch – even a broken witch.  
  
The Black Widow lashed out her hand, ripping the spidersilk threads of her tangled web, not caring that insane laughter was rippling from her mouth. Let Dorothea have her games, her power. Within seventeen centuries, she would be destroyed.  
  
Outside the alley, passerby stopped briefly to wonder at the mad laughter that was issuing from the dank passage, then shook their collective head and went on. It was none of their business. 


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is from Anne Bishop's Black Jewels Trilogy. The words are mine (duh), the idea for this fic is mine, and I made up Tersa's last name. That's about it.  
  
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1 Chapter 2  
  
There was a respectful knock at the study door. "Come," Saetan said, gritting his teeth against another one of Dorothea's endless messengers. If nothing else, the woman certainly possessed the ability to irritate him.  
  
As the door opened, he blinked slightly. Flooding the room was not the full, strong psychic scent of one of the Jeweled Blood, but the unmistakable shattered scent of a broken witch. And a Black Widow. What…?  
  
"Sit down, Lady," he said politely as she came into view of the desk. She seemed mostly calm, but her hands clenched her skirt slightly as she sat down, and her face showed a resolve uncommon to a broken witch. "You wished to speak with me?"  
  
"Yes, High Lord," she said quietly. She had the golden skin and eyes of the Dhemlan Blood, but her accent was oddly Hayllian. "There are rumors," she said abruptly. "Rumors on the streets of Draega of your contract with Dorothea SaDiablo."  
  
"Are there?" he murmured.  
  
She licked her lips, looked down, and then lifted her head again. "High Lord, what agreements you choose to make are your own business, and I don't wish to meddle in your private affairs, but I have – I have seen the outcome in a tangled web shortly before I was…" Her shoulders hunched.  
  
He nodded, understanding her meaning. She had woven that tangled web shortly before she was broken. "And what did you see, Lady?" His voice was soft thunder, hiding a growing dread.  
  
She licked her lips again. "I saw – you. Weeping. While Dorothea ripped out your heart. I saw you looking into a mirror. Kneeling in the middle of a study – " She looked around for the first time. "Not this one. Another one. A smaller one. Not as formal. Torn book pages in your fists." She closed her eyes, scrunching them shut as though faced with a blinding light. "And I saw a man. A man with your face. Who wore the Black."  
  
His breath was coming in sharp gasps. She was lying. Please, sweet Darkness, let her be lying.  
  
"And I saw him. Standing. In a bedchamber. Leashed, but not by his choice. Ice on the walls and murder in his eyes." She opened her eyes. They were wide, with the all-too-familiar look of a broken witch on the verge of slipping into the Twisted Kingdom. "That's what I saw, High Lord."  
  
For an instant, she looked as if she wanted to say something more, but then the barriers of her face closed again, and he decided not to press her.  
  
"Thank you, Lady," he said formally.  
  
She cringed at the sound of the formal address. "Please – call me by my name."  
  
He spoke gently, as if to a child. "And what is your name?"  
  
She hesitated, then bit her lip and said, "Tersa."  
  
"Tersa what?"  
  
Another hesitation. "D'Azraelle."  
  
He arched his eyebrows, surprised. "If you don't mind my asking, what was a member of the d'Azraelle family doing in Draega? I was under the impression that no d'Azraelle has been in Hayll for centuries now."  
  
Her shoulders straightened, and all traces of the Twisted Kingdom dropped out of her eyes. "I'd rather not say, High Lord."  
  
He nodded gravely. "Of course, Lady Tersa."  
  
He expected some more response, but all she said was, "Thank you, High Lord," before standing up and walking out the door.  
  
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He stared at Dorothea's messenger, desperately wishing that his headache would go away. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
The man's face was pale as he answered, "The High P-Priestess h-has – which is to say that – I mean – "  
  
Yes, he definitely wished that his headache would go away. "Yes?"  
  
"The High Priestess requests that you inform her of your decision soon, preferably in p-person." Having delivered the message, the man slumped back in his seat with obvious relief.  
  
Finally giving in to the headache, Saetan rubbed his temples. "Did the High Priestess give any specifics?"  
  
"High Lord?"  
  
"Specifics," Saetan began again, spelling out every word as though to a first-year Craft student. "Did the High Priestess specify what date I should reply by?"  
  
The man colored slightly. "No, High Lord."  
  
Saetan choked down a sigh. It really wasn't the man's fault. "Very well. Tell the High Priestess – "  
  
Before he could finish his sentence, however, he felt the study door open, and a familiar psychic scent entering the room. "Lady Tersa," he said, muffling his surprise. Not that he really needed to, as Dorothea's messenger was too busy goggling at Tersa's wild appearance to notice any of the High Lord's reactions, but… "It's a pleasure to see you again."  
  
Tersa nodded. "I know." No arrogance in the words; it was a simple statement of fact. Even though he himself was a Black Widow, in the conversations that had followed their first meeting Saetan still hadn't figured out where exactly Tersa got her information.  
  
Besides the fact that the Darkness had a twisted sense of humor.  
  
"Right," the messenger said with a slightly shell-shocked expression. "You were saying?"  
  
"Inform the High Priestess – "  
  
But his sentence was cut off for the second time by the look Tersa gave him. She did not even have to send it on a psychic thread. There was no desire in her gaze; again, it was only a statement of fact. She might as well have been a farmer concluding a deal at market, but her meaning was clear, and he suddenly knew with disturbing clarity what she had seen in her tangled web that she hadn't told him before.  
  
She had seen herself bearing a child. His child.  
  
And he realized further that perhaps the only possible way to keep the child slightly free of Dorothea's taint was to make the mother a Black Widow who was not of Hayll's Hourglass.  
  
The thought sickened him.  
  
But as he looked at Tersa, there was no fear in her face, nor revulsion at being used as a glorified brood mare. There was only quiet acceptance.  
  
She was his choice. The only choice he had.  
  
He looked at the expectantly waiting messenger. "Inform the High Priestess that the mother will be Lady Tersa d'Azraelle, formerly of Hayll's Horglass. Inform her further that we will be in Draega within the week."  
  
The messenger stared at Tersa again, bobbed his head repeatedly, and said, "Very good, High Lord," before bolting from the study.  
  
When the man had gone, they studied each other. Finally, Tersa said, "If you regret your choice – my visions don't have to be yours." She swallowed, and it struck him for the first time how young she was. Oh, she might be ancient by the standards of short-lived races, but by the standards of the long-lived races she was barely out of adolescence.  
  
"I don't take a Black Widow's visions lightly, Lady. Nor do I take you lightly."  
  
Silence. She nodded once and left the study.  
  
Her shattered-glass psychic scent trailed behind her like a banner.  
  
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The messenger cowered in the corner as Hayll's shrieking High Priestess hurled dish after dish at the wall. She spared the man a glance, and then went back to the neat stack of plates on the coffee table. She had more important things to do than placate her servants.  
  
Like smashing every breakable thing she could get her hands on.  
  
"Tell me," crash, "again." Her voice, a normally silky purr, was oddly contrasted by the background noise of breaking pottery.  
  
The man whimpered, clutching his White Jewel like a talisman. "The H- High – th-the High Lord has – " He made a choked sound and began again. "The High Lord has decided upon Lady Tersa d'Azraelle, once of Hayll's Hourglass." Having re-delivered his message, the man cowered further down in his corner as though anticipating the end of the world. Dorothea put down her plate and looked at him, amused.  
  
"Now, really, darling," she said, stepping over to him, "is that the way to behave after doing your duty?"  
  
"No, Priestess," the man breathed in barely audible tones, but his expression said otherwise.  
  
She bent down next to him, putting her mouth next to his ear. "You're probably right, darling," she whispered intimately, "but I can't let this… wonderful… news you've brought me go unrewarded, can I?"  
  
The man shook his head repeatedly. She smiled at him warmly.  
  
"Don't do that; you'll give yourself an injury." Her low, breathy voice seemed at odds with the statement's pragmatism. "Now, where was I?" She stood up and stretched luxuriously. "Ah, yes, an appropriate reward." Clapping her hands, she smiled at her guards as they came into the room. "Take this man and prepare him for a… private entertainment." The man's face paled at the thought of the amusements that Dorothea's coven enjoyed. She looked at him sympathetically. "Oh, don't worry, darling," she said soothingly. "I'm sure that it won't hurt too much when you belong to the Brotherhood of the Quill." She looked at her guards. "Now, take him away."  
  
As the stunned man was dragged out of the room, she sent a delicate psychic thread in his direction. *Tell me, darling, do you know why I'm doing this to you?*  
  
*No, Priestess,* the man responded, voice choked with fear.  
  
She let him wait in uncomfortable silence before answering in a voice tinged with sleek satisfaction. *Because I can.*  
  
Humming to herself, the High Priestess of Hayll turned back to her stack of dinnerware. The High Lord would soon know his mistake… and pay for it.  
  
The next plate hit the wall. 


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.  
  
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1 Chapter 3  
  
1.1 Five Weeks Later  
  
Resting one hand on her stomach, Tersa d'Azraelle – that ungrateful bitch who Dorothea had hoped never to see again, much less be forced to host for nine months – affectionately touched the frame of the tangled web that she had just finished weaving. Dorothea felt her face slipping into a glower at the sight of the bitch doing what no one but Hayll's Black Widows should be allowed to do, but caught herself in time. Calm. Calm. She couldn't allow her desire to tear out the bitch's throat to get in the way of her plans.  
  
And she didn't dare deny Tersa the right to weave tangled webs. Not with the way that bastard at SaDiablo Hall had insisted. She cursed the need to not arouse any suspicions – Hekatah had been all too clear on that score – but otherwise bided her time, counting down the days until the High Lord's brat was due and she would finally have her dark-Jeweled pet. Calm. Calm.  
  
"Priestess," Tersa called, looking up.  
  
Dorothea smiled painfully. "Yes?" Now why would the woman want to talk to her? Usually they avoided each other as much as possible, hardly bothering to keep up the pretense that they didn't loathe each other.  
  
"Is the High Lord here?"  
  
Dorothea's eyes blazed in spite of herself. To think that the bitch dared relegate her – the High Priestess and most influential witch in Hayll – to the role of a messenger! Remembering the fate of the messenger who had first told her of the High Lord's choice, however, and knowing what the High Lord was capable of, she smiled sweetly and said, "I'm not sure, Sister." She paused. "Perhaps you could try and find him yourself – oh, I'm so sorry. I forgot about your… condition."  
  
Tersa returned the smile with equal venom. "Thank you, Priestess. I'll do just that."  
  
Still seething, Dorothea turned on her heel, intending to do some therapeutic pottery-smashing – in the months since she had received news of the High Lord's choice, a new industry had sprung up in Draega to support the High Priestess' new stress-relieving habit – but stopped as a new thought struck her. She forced herself to continue walking when she noticed Tersa's gaze on her.  
  
Recently, Prythian had been sending her increasingly distressed messages about a rebellious young journeymaid Black Widow with too much strength for her own good. Normally, Dorothea would have told her to simply break the bitch and have done, but this witch interested her. Prythian had said that the girl wore an Opal Jewel, with the potential to wear the Red. Dorothea knew that it was foolish to be superstitious about a witch with her exact Jewel strength, but –  
  
She knew, however long-lived a race Hayllians were, and even if she became demon-dead like Hekatah, that she wouldn't live forever. She had always known that. But if this girl, a young, strong witch – a young, strong, impressionable witch – could be molded into a fitting successor…  
  
Quickening her step, she hurried toward her rooms to give a few orders. Prythian was sending the girl – Luthvian, she thought the name was – to Hayll today, as per Dorothea's instructions. If the girl could be taught, all well and good, but if she couldn't… well, there were other ways to relieve stress than to smash dinnerware against the wall. Besides, her guards were getting surly from lack of activity. This girl, if she proved recalcitrant, would undoubtedly be a fitting entertainment for them.  
  
Among other things.  
  
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Tersa briefly watched Dorothea hurry away, but soon turned back to her tangled web. She had neither the patience nor the stomach to consider Dorothea's perversions for an extended period of time, nor was she particularly interested in them right now.  
  
Particularly not now.  
  
Softer than a breath, she gently tapped one of the strands of the web, wincing at the sudden onrush of impressions. A young witch, holding a set of scales, trying to decide which side she would give the extra weight of the feather that she held in one hand. Dorothea, holding the young witch's hand, squeezing it so hard that blood dripped from the tips of her delicate fingers.  
  
Two paths.  
  
One was Dorothea's path, the tainted one. Sitting at the foot of Dorothea's throne, the High Priestess' pet and successor. The second was the route that Tersa had taken – the path of a broken witch. Red-Jeweled strength oozing between her fingers as the body and mind were violated, body mutilated, mind gently easing itself into the sweet light/darkness of the Twisted Kingdom, blood, blood, blood, too much blood, so much blood, violated, violated, I am violated, I am –  
  
No.  
  
Tersa raised a shaking hand to her brow, extricating her mind from the tangled web. She couldn't afford to go mad, to slip into the Twisted Kingdom. Not yet. She had to see clearly, or Dorothea would triumph. It was as simple as that.  
  
Steeling herself, she looked once more into the tangled web.  
  
Ah. How could she have been so foolish as to think that there were only two paths? There were more, so many more.  
  
Following any of the options that Dorothea allowed would only lead to the first two options. But if the witch's Virgin Night was given to a male who was not under Dorothea's control – the High Lord, say – the possibilities began to bloom like flowers.  
  
Her eyes widened when she saw what that would lead to, and she began to laugh softly. Not triumphant laughter, but the breathless, giddy laughter of one who has climbed an insurmountable obstacle and has no breath to do anything but laugh.  
  
Oh, yes, she would take Dorothea's advice. 


End file.
